


Doubt

by narsus



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Betrayal, Emotional Manipulation, Implied Relationships, M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fanatic is always concealing a secret doubt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy belongs to John le Carré, StudioCanal and Working Title Films.

It’s only afterwards, when they lie together silently in bed, that any semblance of life returns to Peter’s eyes. After his silent arrival at Ricki’s flat, at some godforsaken hour of the night, after some surprisingly gentle lovemaking, after Ricki has exhausted all his platitudes and finally sinks into silence himself. It’s only then that Peter regains his focus, gaze sharp and calculating, long fingers readily reaching for his cigarettes, lips already firming into that compressed, withdrawn, line. He lies on his back, an arm behind his head, smoking steadily, occasionally holding his cigarette off to the side to tap the ash from the end. Ricki’s learnt that if he doesn’t have an ashtray to hand Peter will simply drop ash on the bedsheets anyway. Ricki’s quick to swipe the ashtray from the bedside cabinet and place it on the bed these days. Just as he’s quick to pour Peter a drink and prop himself up on an elbow so that he can watch Peter’s expressionless face when he finally tells Ricki what it’s all about this time.

“I hate bourbon.” Peter’s tone is bland, and his hatred of said drink not nearly enough to stop him drinking it.  
“Tough shit. Bring your own next time.”  
“Next time?”  
“Yeah, next time. There’s always a next time, right?”

Peter smiles mockingly. Of course there is always a next time. Ricki isn’t fool enough to think that Peter’s derision is directed at anyone but Peter himself.

“Fine. Do you really want-“  
“No.”  
“Course you don’t. And you don’t smoke Gauloises either.”  
"Liberté toujours?” Peter laughs.  
“Fuck Alsace.”

Peter stubs out the remains of his cigarette and rolls over onto his stomach, somehow keeping hold of the glass in the process. Ricki sits up, lights a cigarette for himself at last and runs his free hand down Peter’s back. Peter sighs, and Ricki knows what comes next.

“Did I ever tell you, George once said-“  
“Jesus, Peter. _I’ve_ just fucked you and you want to talk about Smiley? Can’t you at least pretend-“

Ricki shuts his mouth abruptly. He doesn’t want to say what he’s thinking, shouldn’t have started saying it in the first place, because there’s no getting away from it. Peter’s bizarre relationship with Smiley dominates everything.

“Are you jealous, Ricki?”

This sly, teasing, yet dangerous, tone is completely new. Normally, any time Ricki speaks of Smiley in anything even approaching a negative, Peter just shuts down. Something has changed and that frightens Ricki far more than he’s willing to admit.

“Perhaps I didn’t. No, I can’t have done.” Peter continues, conversationally, mostly to himself.  
“What?”  
“George once said that the reason he knew Karla could be beaten was because he was a fanatic. Karla, not George. And the fanatic is always concealing a secret doubt. What do you make of that?”

There’s nothing but cool, practiced, detachment in Peter’s voice. No hint of any emotion that might be attached to either the sentiment or the circumstances.

“He said he knew he could beat Karla. He didn’t include you in that.”

The smile that greets Ricki’s comment is obscenely wide and more than a little demented. It means that this is exactly what Peter wanted to hear, what he was expecting Ricki to realise, to focus on. There is a reason they work well together after all. When they’re not snapping or yelling, they tend to follow each other, quite easily, through their own unique brand of twisted logic. Ricki came back a hero after all and for that he became deputy head of section. Which is a promotion, a validation of his worth, and still, also, an assessment of just how monstrous men like he and Peter have become.

“And the fanatic is always concealing a secret doubt.”

Ricki feels like he almost hears it, the part where his brain ticks over that vital piece of information, and slots everything, at last, into place. He’s never faulted his own logic but this time, for the sake of his own safety if anything, he needs to be sure. He’s quick to stub out the neglected remains of his cigarette and move the ashtray aside, so that he can move closer to Peter. Peter hands over the empty glass and rolls onto his side, to face Ricki, as if he’s been expecting this all along. Perhaps he has.

“I need to know.”  
“What do you think?”

They lie facing each other. Peter’s expression is expectant and then completely unsurprised when Ricki pulls him close. It’s only when they’re pressed up against each other, skin to skin, that Peter lets his gaze fall. He lifts a hand to stoke Ricki’s arm, splaying his fingers over the bunched muscle, letting his gaze follow the movement of his fingertips.

“You’ll kill him if the Russians ever give you a good enough price.”

Ricki whispers it. Half terrified by the sentiment. That Peter, of all people, could lose faith with Smiley. It’s enough to shatter Ricki’s remaining faith in anything. Of all of them Peter should have stayed true. In Ricki’s strange parthenon of man-made gods Peter would always have been the last to fall. Slain in the defence of the realm. Sacrificing himself for the sake of Control.

“You-“

Peter silences him with a kiss. Gentle and innocent. Even more surprising in light of the circumstances. Ricki wants to ask just what George did to break Peter, out of a morbid curiosity, coupled with a genuine regret, and a lurking fear of repeating the mistake himself. There’s a disturbingly guileless quality to Peter right now which is, somehow, more terrifying than any of his rages.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

The words slip from Ricki’s tongue almost without any conscious input on his part. Peter stares at him for long moments.

“Then don’t.”

Ricki can only hope that it’s that easy, that all of it, everything that’s gone wrong, was all the product of George’s deliberate subterfuge, and not the simple haphazardness of fate. Because if it’s the latter then he cannot guarantee that Peter will not be hurt again. Despite the best of intentions he won’t be able to make such a promise, no matter what consequences depend on it.

“Don’t use me like he did.”

Immediately, Ricki wants to ask more questions but, of course, he can’t. Not now, not ever. Not if he wants another chance to hold Peter in his arms like this. He can’t do anything but agree.

“I promise.”

It’s the worst thing a spy can do. This is a situation that nobody can win. Ricki will destroy himself trying to keep that promise and, eventually, when he cannot help but break it, there’s every likelihood that it will break him. There are promises and there are promises. This is one that will damn everyone. Ricki should know better than that but he’s promised the impossible anyway.

“Can I ask something in return?”  
“Ask.”  
“If I, you know, stuff this up, will you at least…”  
“Put cyanide in your tea and tell them that you couldn’t take it anymore?”

Which is exactly the way that Peter’s first handler died. Peter looks at Ricki like he’s expecting the question but Ricki just holds Peter tighter. He buries his nose in Peter’s hair.

“I didn’t kill him. George did.”

Which, inevitably, makes it all the worse.

**Author's Note:**

> "Liberté toujours” is the slogan for Gauloises.


End file.
